The field stretched wide and empty, green and gold beneath the dying sun — but already the light was failing, swallowed by the black clouds massing above.
At the heart of a fresh crater stood Thor Odinson.
His broad shoulders rose and fell with each breath, his red cloak torn at the edges and whipping wildly in the growing wind. His golden hair tangled around his face, catching faint sparks of static as the air thickened.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised Mjolnir to the sky.
Above, the clouds churned like a great sea, boiling black and silver, devouring the horizon. The warmth of the day was gone now — replaced by a sudden chill that sank into the bones.
The grass at Thor's feet rippled and flattened, bowing as if in reverence.
Lightning licked across the cloudbank with a low crack, followed by a deep, rolling growl of thunder.
Thor's deep voice rose, carried by the storm, low but commanding — a prayer and a challenge all at once:
"Heimdall!" His blue eyes flared as he spoke. "Watch well! Your prince calls upon the might of Asgard!"
A hush fell over the field as though the world itself listened.
And then —
With a sound like the sky being torn asunder, a jagged spear of lightning stabbed down from the clouds, striking Mjolnir's waiting head with blinding fury.
Thor stood firm as the storm poured its power into him, arcs of lightning dancing down his arms, across his shoulders, wreathing him in an aura of raw energy. His cloak flared out behind him like a crimson banner. His hair lifted in a golden halo. His eyes burned white as moonfire.
Then the armor began to come to him — piece by shining piece, forged in stormlight and memory.
The greaves snapped onto his shins first, plates of gleaming silver etched with ancient runes.
The chestplate followed, slamming into place over his broad chest with a resounding clang, the great discs along its front crackling faintly as they settled.
Then the vambraces coiled down his forearms, locking with a sharp click, tiny forks of lightning crackling between his fingers.
One by one, the pieces of Asgard's mightiest champion assembled around him until he stood fully clad — the unmistakable silhouette of a god of thunder.
The last strap buckled itself tight as the field darkened completely, clouds swirling in a great vortex overhead, faint silver light glinting through their edges.
Thor smirked faintly as he adjusted his grip on Mjolnir, rolling the haft in his palm as if reacquainting himself with an old friend. The hammer pulsed with its own faint glow now, eager to strike.
He lifted his chin, his eyes blazing white, his gaze fixed on the distant hills where his quarry fled.
"Run as far as you dare, brother," he murmured, his voice low but carrying across the storm-lashed field, every syllable like the rumble of distant thunder. "But know this — there is no realm where you may hide from me."
Lightning forked across the clouds in answer.
Thor rolled his shoulders and tilted his head until his neck cracked audibly, feeling the full weight and fury of his power coursing through him.
And then —
With a roar that shook the air, he hurled himself skyward, the field beneath him exploding into a whirl of dust and lightning.
Mjolnir struck the storm first, pulling him into the heart of the clouds, his cloak streaming behind him.
From below, he was little more than a streak of gold and stormlight, swallowed quickly into the churning black sky as thunder rolled in his wake.
A god unleashed. A hunter set loose.
The storm was his now. And his prey would feel its wrath.
—
The armory hummed with energy — faint vibration in the deck plates, agents hustling back and forth with crates of munitions and datapads, the buzz of repulsorlifts somewhere deeper in the bay.
Steve Rogers stood by his locker, strapping the shield onto his back with easy, decisive movements. His blue eyes scanned the room like a general on campaign — calm, but edged with intent. Every line of his body radiated quiet authority, like a coiled spring waiting for the signal to strike.
On the next bench over, Clint Barton was checking his arrows, one by one, his fingers quick and steady. He whistled softly as he pulled one free and twirled it between his fingers.
"Well," Clint said, his voice dry as dust, "nothing says romantic evening on the town like apocalypse weather and matching team outfits."
Natasha Romanoff, seated on the edge of the table across from him, didn't even glance up as she fastened her Widow's Bite bracers with a faint electric hiss.
"No one's expecting you to match, Barton," she said, her lips curling in the faintest, most dangerous smile. "We all know you're a lone wolf."
"Wolf," Clint muttered, testing his bowstring, "or the stray mutt nobody asked for?"
"Does it matter?" Natasha replied coolly, twisting her wrist and letting blue arcs dance between her fingers. "We keep you around because you bite."
Across the room, Tony Stark was hunched over a workbench, goggles perched on his forehead and a tiny arc-welder sparking against his battered helmet.
"Stupid thunder god…" he grumbled to himself. Bzzt. "…wrecking my faceplate like a diva with daddy issues…" Bzzt. "…swear I just fixed these circuits last week…"
An agent slowed as they passed, casting a curious glance at the helmet as the eyes lit up. Tony straightened, flipped the goggles up, and tapped the temple.
"Atta girl," he murmured to the helmet, satisfied. "Back in business. Daddy's home."
Harry Potter stood a little apart from the rest, adjusting the crimson-and-gold light armor plates over his black bodysuit. The phoenix crest at his chest gleamed faintly in the overhead light, a subtle glow against the polished edges of his gear. His emerald green eyes swept the room, calm but keen, his jaw set with quiet determination.
Next to him, Daphne Greengrass was smoothing a hand down her dark, tailored combat robes, the wand already in her sleeve. She gave him a sideways glance and a faint, knowing smirk.
"You're staring again," she murmured under her breath.
Harry shot her a deadpan look and buckled the final strap on his vambrace.
"Not at you," he said smoothly.
She arched a perfect brow. "Mm-hm. Keep telling yourself that, Potter."
Fleur Delacour strode over to Bruce Banner, all grace and smoldering confidence, tossing a folded black bundle into his hands. Bruce blinked at it, holding it up like she'd just handed him a dead rat.
"What exactly…" Bruce began hesitantly.
"Is enchanted," Fleur interrupted in her honeyed French accent, her lips curving into a wicked little smile. "Will stretch indefinitely. Even when…" She tilted her head playfully. "How do you say? When zee other guy comes out to play."
Bruce unfolded the bodysuit gingerly, holding it by the shoulders.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Well. That's… considerate. Thanks, I think."
Val, already strapped into dark gleaming armor and testing the balance of her twin daggers, leaned over to Allyria Dayne and murmured something with a smirk. Allyria, cool and beautiful and lethal, gave a low chuckle as her violet eyes flitted toward Bruce.
Dacey Mormont caught the exchange and barked a laugh from across the bench, twirling her baton lazily.
"Oh, you'll thank her," she called to Bruce, flashing him a wink. "Way better than waking up naked in a crater. Ask me how I know."
Bruce's cheeks flushed faintly. "I… won't."
Natasha glanced at Harry as she rose to her feet, her boots clicking softly against the deck.
"You good?" she asked coolly, just the faintest flicker of warmth in her green eyes.
Harry nodded once, his expression steady. "Always."
Shaak Ti stood by the exit, perfectly composed, her lekku draped gracefully over her shoulders, her robes whispering faintly as she adjusted her belt. Her dark gaze moved across them all, serene but penetrating, as though seeing far beyond the here and now.
Aayla Secura moved to her side, her blue skin and lithe frame catching the light as she clipped her lightsaber into place. The two Jedi exchanged a faint, wordless nod, a ripple of the Force shimmering around them like an unseen current.
When Steve finally moved to the front of the group, he paused, turned slightly, and took them all in at a glance.
"All right," he said, his voice low but carrying. "We've got one shot at this. Stay sharp. Watch each other's backs. And don't stop moving forward."
He started walking, every line of him radiating strength, his shield catching the light as it swung slightly over his shoulder.
"Let's move."
One by one, they fell in behind him.
On Steve's left, Natasha strode with quiet, predatory grace, the Widow's Bite alive on her wrists.
On his right, Harry's green eyes scanned ahead, the phoenix at his chest a glimmer of crimson fire.
Behind them, Clint fell in, twirling an arrow between his fingers, his lips quirking into a faint grin.
Daphne and Fleur flanked the center, Fleur's wand already in her hand, Daphne's smile sharp and sly.
Val and Allyria followed side by side, blades ready, dangerous and poised.
Dacey sauntered just behind them, her baton spinning lazily, her smirk daring anyone to try her.
Shaak and Aayla brought up the rear, their calm presence and the faint ripple of the Force a steady anchor.
The heavy doors of the lower hangar yawned open before them, the air beyond sharp with the promise of battle.
You could feel it then — the hush before the storm, the weight of what was coming, the hum of anticipation running like a live wire through them all.
They moved as one — a line of warriors, predators, legends in the making.
Somewhere ahead, their quarry waited.
And they were ready to strike.
—
The hulking cargo bay doors ahead gleamed under the strip lights, painted with stark RESTRICTED ACCESS warnings. Steve led the way, broad shoulders squared, his boots heavy against the deck. The rest of the team followed in a loose but purposeful line.
Clint veered slightly ahead, his fingers idly drumming against his bow. His smirk was already forming as he glanced sideways at Steve.
"Tell me again, Cap — are we even supposed to be down here? Because I'm not seeing a 'welcome aboard' mat."
Steve didn't so much as look at him.
"You're welcome," Steve deadpanned.
Before Clint could respond, a SHIELD engineer — young, freckled, with a helmet slightly askew — came running from a side corridor, waving his arms like his life depended on it.
"Hey! Hey, hey! This section's restricted!" the kid barked breathlessly, planting himself square in Steve's path. "You can't just—"
Steve didn't even break stride. He slowed just enough to glance down at the man, his blue eyes like ice, jaw set.
"Son…" Steve rumbled, in a voice that could quiet thunder. "Just don't."
The kid froze mid-word, swallowed hard, and stepped aside without another sound.
The massive bay doors groaned and began to open. Cold night air and stars spilled in as the platform extended. Clint stepped to the edge, peering out at the empty black.
"Okay…" he muttered, leaning on his bow. "So where's this big, fancy ride you promised? Because unless that's a magic carpet out there, I'm not seeing anything."
Harry stepped up beside him then, emerald eyes glinting faintly. The light from the deck caught the phoenix emblem on his crimson-and-gold chestplate. He folded his arms, calm and assured.
"You'll see," he murmured.
Clint snorted. "What is it with you people and cryptic one-liners?"
The air outside shimmered suddenly, like the heat rising off pavement. A low hum built into a thrum, and with a soft pulse of golden light, something massive appeared.
A sleek black assault corvette, bristling with cannons, its hull etched with glowing red-and-gold markings, dropped its stealth field and hovered silently just beyond the platform. Its engines purred, casting faint ripples across the steel.
Clint's jaw actually dropped for half a second.
"Well… damn."
Harry let a faint smirk curl his lips.
"Gentlemen. Ladies." He extended an arm gracefully toward the ship. "The Marauder. Marauder-class Assault Corvette. Enhanced."
Daphne stepped forward on his left, twirling her wand between her fingers and arching a brow.
"We do like to travel in style," she said, her voice low and silky.
Fleur glided up on his other side, all dazzling smile and lethal poise.
"And she is très magnifique," she added with her French lilt, "when we feel like making a scene."
Val appeared at Harry's shoulder, spinning a dagger lazily in her fingers.
"Fast, quiet, and hits like a dragon," she said with a sly smirk. "My kind of ship."
Allyria's calm violet eyes glimmered faintly as she murmured, "She never fails."
Dacey shouldered her baton and flashed Clint a cheeky grin.
"Told you you'd look good in this ride," she teased.
Clint squinted at her. "You sure you people aren't a cult?"
From the back, Natasha's dry voice cut in: "Don't encourage them."
Shaak Ti stood near the platform edge, serene, her lekku shifting faintly in the wind. Aayla, at her side, smiled faintly, her fingers brushing her lightsaber hilt.
The Marauder rotated, its rear cargo bay doors opening with a hiss. Inside, Susan Bones and Riyo Chuchi stood waiting in the soft glow of the bay lights, already armed and ready.
Steve wasted no time. He crouched slightly and leapt, super-soldier strength carrying him effortlessly through the gap. His boots landed heavy on the Marauder's deck.
Shaak and Aayla shared a glance. Without a word, they leapt as well, the Force guiding them as they landed light as feathers beside Steve. Together, they reached out — and both Clint and Natasha suddenly lifted into the air, carried across by invisible hands.
"Okay, this—" Clint yelped mid-air. "This is definitely weird. Not a fan!"
He landed with a slight stumble. Natasha, of course, landed perfectly, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear.
"You're fine," she said flatly.
Fleur offered her arm to Val with a wink. "Ready?"
Val grinned. "Always."
Daphne extended her arm to Allyria on the other side.
"Hold tight," she said sweetly.
With two sharp pops, all four witches and warriors vanished, reappearing in a swirl of magic on the Marauder's deck just behind Clint and Natasha.
Clint blinked at them. "Oh yeah. Cult."
Just then Bruce jogged into the hangar, tugging the collar of his new black bodysuit awkwardly.
"Wait! I'm here—" he panted. "This… actually fits. That's… weirdly considerate."
Fleur tossed him a dazzling smile over her shoulder.
"Trust me, mon cher," she purred, "you will thank me later."
Bruce looked at her, then at the Marauder, then at Harry still waiting.
"Yeah, okay. Let's… just get this over with."
Harry clapped a hand on Bruce's shoulder, the other on Dacey's.
"Relax, Doc," Harry said, smirking faintly. "First time's always the worst."
With a loud crack, the three of them vanished and reappeared on the Marauder's deck. Bruce immediately staggered forward, clutching his stomach.
"Ohhh," Bruce groaned faintly. "Okay. Nope. Never doing that again…"
Susan was already at the console, her fingers flying over the controls as the bay doors began to close behind them.
"Sealed," she called crisply.
From the cockpit, Riyo's calm, musical voice came through the intercom.
"Piloting droid acknowledges," she said. "Course plotted. New York City. ETA six minutes."
The deck thrummed as the Marauder's engines roared to life, its sleek frame cutting forward into the starry black.
Harry glanced around the deck at the assembled team — Steve already posted at the front, his shield gleaming under the lights; Natasha adjusting her bracers, her green eyes calm and deadly; Clint leaning against the wall, spinning an arrow between his fingers with his trademark smirk; his wives standing at ready, a wall of quiet, lethal elegance.
Harry smirked faintly, emerald eyes glinting.
"Next stop," he said quietly, "one hell of a fight."
And the Marauder surged forward, slicing through the night like a blade.
—
The wind screamed across the air deck, cold and sharp, carrying with it the faint scent of jet fuel and ozone. Nick Fury stood at the edge, one gloved hand gripping the railing, his long coat flaring behind him. The other hand held a stack of trading cards, stained with blood.
His one good eye glared down at them like they'd betrayed him somehow. The corners of his mouth were pressed into a line of stone as his thumb slowly flicked over the top card — Captain America, smiling in a bright, hopeful pose. The crimson smear across it glistened in the deck lights.
"You stupid, stubborn son of a…" Fury muttered under his breath, low enough for only himself to hear.
Footsteps approached, quiet but deliberate, and Fury didn't have to turn to know who it was.
"Sir," came Coulson's voice — calm, measured, and just a little wry.
Fury didn't look back.
"Coulson."
Coulson stopped a few paces behind him, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He studied the back of Fury's head for a moment, then the cards in his hand.
"Those cards," Coulson said evenly, "were in my locker. Not… in my jacket."
Fury's thumb paused. His jaw flexed, but his gaze stayed on the cards.
"They needed the push," he said flatly, the words sharp enough to cut steel.
Coulson raised his eyebrows faintly, then allowed himself a soft, dry chuckle.
"Of course they did," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, after a beat: "You know, next time you want to desecrate my personal effects, you could at least buy me dinner first."
Fury's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
That was when the sound hit them — a low, rising roar, growing louder, deeper, impossible to ignore. Both men lifted their heads, eyes turning to the far end of the deck just as a shimmer rippled in the night air.
And then it appeared.
The Marauder.
Sleek and black as sin, its hull gleaming faint red-and-gold like a predator's eyes in the dark. The massive corvette roared out of Bay Six, the stealth field dropping in a shimmer of refracted light. It rolled forward like it owned the sky, engines blazing, leaving streaks of fire in its wake.
Fury's good eye narrowed.
"Damn," he breathed, his voice carrying just enough grit to mask the faint edge of nostalgia.
Coulson tilted his head slightly, watching the ship climb into the clouds.
"That thing still purrs," he said softly, and then added with a little smile, "Eighteen years. Hell of a long time."
Fury's lips curved upward into a rare smile — cold, dangerous, and maybe even proud.
"They found it," he muttered.
That was when the sharp voice of the intercom cut through the moment:
"We've got unauthorized departure from Bay Six!"
Fury's smile didn't falter as he slowly turned his head toward the control tower.
"Yeah," he said, his voice low and lethal. "No kidding."
And louder, with a snap of command:
"Somebody get me comms back online! I don't care if you have to duct tape a squirrel to an antenna — I want my eyes on every street, every rooftop, every rat hole. I don't care if it's from the cellphone of someone drowning himself in a martini glass. We're not missing this."
From behind him came the brisk click of boots. Maria Hill stepped up next to them, tablet already in her hands, dark hair whipping in the wind, her expression set in a scowl halfway between irritation and begrudging admiration.
"Yes, sir," Hill said crisply, her fingers already flying over the screen. "I'll have visuals back in three minutes."
Coulson smirked faintly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.
"Three minutes?" he asked, deadpan. "What, you taking your time to enjoy the view?"
Hill arched one perfect eyebrow, not even looking at him as she replied:
"Someone had to enjoy the view while you were busy bleeding all over your collectibles."
Coulson chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Touché."
Fury finally looked down at the cards one last time, thumb brushing over the bloodstain on Cap's smiling face. Then, with deliberate care, he slid the deck into his coat pocket and squared his shoulders.
His gaze followed the Marauder as it climbed higher, its engines blazing, vanishing into the distant clouds over New York.
"Show me what you can do," Fury growled under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
The Helicarrier deck behind him lit up like a war machine coming alive — klaxons blaring, lights blazing, and comms sparking back to life as agents scrambled to stations.
And for the first time all night, Fury actually looked like he was enjoying himself.
—
The city stretched out below like a living circuit board, pulsing with life. Sunlight glittered on glass and steel, casting long sharp shadows in the crisp morning air. Street vendors hawked hot dogs, taxi horns blared, and somewhere a saxophone played an old jazz tune.
Above the urban symphony, a red-and-gold streak cut through the clear sky — a comet blazing a trail of fire and metal.
Tony Stark soared over the East River, the thrusters in his palms sputtering warnings. The HUD's glow flickered intermittently, blinking like a dying light.
"Sir," JARVIS intoned, smooth as ever with a hint of dry British patience, "your suit's power reserves are critically low. We're operating at eight percent capacity and dropping steadily."
Tony squinted through the helmet's HUD, a crooked grin ghosting his lips beneath the faceplate.
"Eight percent?" he said, voice laced with that patented Stark charm. "Well, that's an improvement from the seven-point-five we had last week. At this rate, I'll make it to lunch... maybe."
His flight path arced toward Stark Tower — the pinnacle of his ego and genius — where his name blazed like a neon crown atop the penthouse.
On the rooftop, Dr. Erik Selvig paced nervously around the Tesseract containment device. The swirling blue cube pulsed with eerie light, encased within a shimmering, humming field of pure energy. The setup looked like a blend of mad science and arcane ritual.
"Sir," JARVIS reported, "I have disabled the arc reactor supplying power to the containment field. The device is now self-sustaining."
Tony's brow furrowed beneath his visor. "Self-sustaining, huh? Sounds like my last relationship."
With a metallic clang, he landed squarely on the platform, sparks flickering down his chest plate as his boots settled on the concrete.
"Selvig," Tony called out, voice low but cutting through the charged air, "shut it down. Now. This ends here."
Selvig spun toward him, eyes wild with fevered conviction, his voice trembling.
"It's too late, Tony! She—it—won't stop. This device… it's opening a gateway, a new universe, a new reality. We've been blind to the possibilities—"
Tony held up a hand, stopping the man's frantic speech midstream.
"Save the TED Talk, doc. Plan A, coming right up."
With a smooth, practiced motion, Tony raised his palm, repulsor glowing bright blue.
A beam fired, slamming into the swirling barrier.
The energy exploded back in a violent rebound. A shockwave knocked Selvig off his feet and sent Tony skidding backward, sparks flying from his gauntlet and chest plate.
JARVIS's voice returned, tinged with mild concern and an edge of irony.
"The barrier is composed of pure energy, sir. It is impervious to all known offensive measures."
Tony wiped the soot off his gauntlet, sighing with mock exasperation.
"Yeah, no kidding. Well, that's a plot twist."
His gaze dropped to the platform below the penthouse — where Loki leaned casually against the railing, a smirk curling beneath his dark eyes, scepter in hand.
Tony's voice hardened, the grin fading into something sharper.
"Plan B."
JARVIS replied, ever the courteous assistant, "Sir, the Mark Seven armor is not yet fully operational. Deploying now may result in suboptimal performance."
Tony's eyes glinted behind the visor, voice dripping with defiance.
"Then ditch the frills. No spin rims, no champagne service. We're on a schedule."
His fingers curled, repulsors humming with lethal promise.
"Let's dance, god of mischief."
With that, Tony stepped forward into the unknown — the city unaware, the calm before the storm.
—
The sleek hum of Stark tech filled the penthouse, cool sunlight flooding through shattered floor-to-ceiling windows. Tony Stark stood in the center, the last pieces of his Mark Seven armor sliding back into their compact form with mechanical grace. He was human now—vulnerable, but no less sharp.
The air shifted. Loki appeared at the entrance, his presence like a shadow in the light, his smirk slow and knowing. The god's robe swirled as he advanced, scepter gleaming ominously.
Loki's voice was silk dipped in ice.
"Please tell me you intend to appeal to my humanity."
Tony didn't miss a beat, stepping behind the bar with the casual swagger of a man who owned this fight.
"Uh, actually, I'm planning to threaten you."
A flicker of amusement crossed Loki's eyes.
"You should have kept your armor on for that."
Tony chuckled, the corner of his mouth twitching as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light.
"Yeah, this old thing's seen better days. But hey, you've got the blue stick of destiny—want a drink? Might help with the mood swings."
Loki's gaze hardened, unmoved.
"Stalling won't change the inevitable."
Tony grinned wider, swirling the whiskey.
"No, no, no—this isn't stalling. It's threatening. No drink for you? Your loss. I'm having one."
The god's lips curled in disdain.
"The Chitauri invasion is coming. You can't stop what's coming. What is there to fear?"
Tony raised an eyebrow, voice dropping to a sardonic murmur.
"The Avengers. We're what you'd call a team. 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes,' to be precise."
Recognition flickered in Loki's eyes. "Yes, I have met them."
Tony's fingers snapped sharply as sleek bracelets locked around his wrists, the tech humming with power.
"Takes us a while to get traction, I admit. But let's do a roll call: your demi-god brother, a super soldier who actually lives up to the hype, a guy with the world's worst anger issues, two deadly assassins, a bona fide wizard with a harem of nine powerful women... and you. Big guy, you've managed to piss off all of them."
Loki's smirk deepened, eyes glittering with mischief and menace.
"That was the plan."
Tony's stride closed the gap between them, voice low and steady.
"Bad plan. When they come, and they will, they'll come for you."
Loki's tone dropped, deadly and cold.
"I have an army."
Tony's grin sharpened into a razor's edge.
"We have a Hulk."
Loki's eyes narrowed. "I thought the man was afraid to unleash the beast."
Tony cocked his head, voice dropping to a fierce growl.
"You're missing the point. There's no throne, no scenario where you win. Maybe your army overwhelms us. But it's on you. 'Cause if we can't protect Earth, you better believe we'll avenge it."
Loki closed in, scepter's tip clicking against the glowing arc reactor embedded in Tony's chest.
"This usually works," Loki whispered, venom lacing the words.
Tony shrugged, smirk unwavering.
"Performance issues."
In a blur, Loki's grip tightened with godlike strength and slammed Tony across the room. The impact sent sparks flying from Tony's damaged suit plating as he skidded into the far wall.
"JARVIS, now," Tony growled, teeth clenched.
Loki advanced, fingers like steel clamps around Tony's neck.
"You will all fall before me."
Tony's voice was calm, commanding.
"JARVIS. Deploy."
Glass shattered as Tony was hurled through the window, the city rushing up to meet him.
"Deploy!" he shouted, voice echoing over the roar of wind.
The Mark Seven armor streaked after him, a missile of gleaming red and gold. With flawless precision, it locked onto Tony mid-fall, unfolding with mechanical grace. Moments before impact, his descent stopped, repulsors flaring as he rocketed back toward the penthouse.
Hovering at the shattered window, fists glowing, Tony snarled:
"And there's one other person you pissed off."
"His name's Phil."
With a blast of repulsor energy, Tony sent Loki sprawling, the god crashing hard onto the marble floor, stunned but far from beaten.
—
The air hummed — no, screamed — with rising energy as the Tesseract flared in its cradle. Blinding blue light erupted, and Tony instinctively squinted even through his visor. A sharp whine cut through the air as the beam of pure energy stabbed the sky and kept going, higher, higher, until the clouds ripped open like fragile silk.
"Okay," Tony muttered under his breath, boosters whining as he hovered above the rooftop, "that… is definitely not in the user manual."
Above Manhattan, the impossible yawned open. A massive, swirling vortex of black and blue, its rim alive with jagged streaks of power, tore reality apart. Beyond it — just waiting — hung the Chitauri fleet. Thousands of them. Hovercrafts bristling with weapons. Armored warriors lining up in perfect formations. And behind them, somewhere deeper in the darkness of that alien maw… massive, undulating leviathans the size of subway trains twisted and coiled like predators waiting to strike.
"Right," Tony said aloud, his voice calm even as his pulse quickened. "Army."
He boosted forward, metal screaming, and streaked toward the portal just as the first wave dove through.
Blaster fire lanced past him immediately — hot bolts of orange and blue slicing through the air. Tony corkscrewed between them, letting out a clipped laugh.
"You guys really don't do subtle, huh?" he called over his external speakers, not that they'd understand him. He twisted upside down, let loose a double blast of his repulsors, and sent three Chitauri spinning end over end into the abyss below.
"Come on, come on," he muttered through clenched teeth, climbing higher, dodging debris as a building behind him belched smoke and flames, a chunk of stone whizzing past his helmet.
"J.A.R.V.I.S.," he barked, firing another shot. "Any idea if alien insurance is a thing? Because we're about to bankrupt Manhattan."
"Sir," J.A.R.V.I.S. replied in that unflappable tone, "I believe this counts as an act of god. Or gods. Plural."
"Helpful as ever, buddy."
Suddenly, a Chitauri hovercraft screamed in from his blind side — BAM! — slamming into him with enough force to crack his shoulder plating.
"Okay! Rude!" he barked, tumbling through the air as warning lights flared across his HUD. He grit his teeth, kicked his thrusters, and righted himself mid-spin.
"Alright," he growled, flexing his fingers as targeting reticules flared. "You get the special treatment."
He loosed a swarm of mini-missiles. The hovercraft detonated in a fiery burst, debris raining down over Fifth Avenue.
—
The streets of Manhattan descended into chaos.
Taxis screeched to a halt. Drivers and passengers craned their necks at the gaping hole in the sky — just in time to see the nightmare pour through. Hovercrafts strafed the streets. Chitauri soldiers leapt down onto rooftops and fired indiscriminately into the crowds. Cars flipped. Glass shattered. People screamed and ran.
Ashley — the waitress from the corner café — stood frozen on the curb, mouth open, tray still in her hands, as an alien bolt of energy incinerated a taxi right in front of her.
"Oh my god," she whispered, legs locked as a hovercraft swooped low, its cannon spitting fire into the buildings.
"Move!" one of her coworkers shrieked, grabbing her arm and dragging her down.
Ashley stumbled, ducking low as a second blast tore through the restaurant window, spraying glass and flames.
"They're—oh my god, they're everywhere," someone whimpered.
Ashley gritted her teeth, heart hammering, and pushed two customers ahead of her toward the back. "Go! Go! Move, move, move!" she shouted, shoving them behind the counter. "Stay low!"
Through the shattered window, she could see them — dozens of Chitauri landing on the street, weapons raised, firing at anything that moved. Cars burned. Sirens wailed. Smoke curled into the morning sky.
—
Above it all, Loki emerged.
He walked with measured grace, as though the earth itself obeyed him. His Asgardian armor shimmered into place, green and gold plates flowing over his body like liquid light, his horned helm snapping into being with a faint crack. The wind caught his cape, making it billow like a banner of conquest.
The scepter glowed faintly in his hand as he stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down.
Chaos.
Fire.
Screams.
Magnificent.
Loki's lips curved into a smile as he raised his head to the portal above and let the wind carry his quiet murmur:
"All this… because of me."
His gaze dropped to the streets, his emerald eyes glinting as his army descended. One hand stretched lazily out to his side, fingers flexing like a maestro conducting an orchestra.
"And it's only just begun."
Behind him, another massive leviathan began to snake through the portal, its armor-plated hide catching the light as it let out a roar that echoed across the skyline.
Loki tilted his head, savoring the sound.
"Yes," he breathed. "Magnificent."
---
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